


The Friends I Have Left

by minklenox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minklenox/pseuds/minklenox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a retired doctor that has moved far, far away from his home of London to a small village by the sea. He has no visitors. He has no friends. He just has the characters in his story to live life for him. But one day the police arrive to investigate a murder, and John is blown away by the beautiful man in the black cloak that sees straight through him. Perhaps it is time again for some company not from his imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Recent Murder In the Area

No. No no. 

Not again. 

John dropped his head into his hands. His skin was grey and shiny with pencil lead - he knew it would leave marks on his face. And when he inhaled, and he smelled just sweaty, marked up skin, it smelled like failure. 

He looked back up, looked all the way up at the ceiling, and stared at it. He sniffed. 

His characters would never amount to anything. They hated them. 

It had been like this for days. Even after investing in this stupid new laptop, this stupid piece of machinery, bright white and glossy, this _thing_ that was supposed to make his life easier, it wasn’t easier. The same people he had loved for years now just wandered in circles, mumbling to each other, forgetting what life was. The same people that used to spill from his pen and pull themselves together into vibrant individuals that felt with ferocity and loved like John always wished he could love - they were fading away now. 

Behind this glowing white screen - it was always white nowadays - was an abyss. And they were falling into it, and every time he held out his hand to catch them, their fingers slipped. 

John pushed himself away from his desk. The chair fumbled against the wooden floor as he swiftly lifted himself from it. 

He had disabled the clock on his computer. The only way he was able to see the time was if he lumbered all the way to the kitchen, and lumber all the way he did. The clock there was a glossy red, the kind of red children seek out in lollipops and wagons. The numbers curling around its inside like a coat were large, sharp and Victorian. And the hands, the worst part of it all, the hefty black hands of the clock read but three in the afternoon. 

All the window shades were drawn. John preferred not to know what time it was. His internal clock told him when to eat and sleep. He insisted that he shut himself up until he finish this chapter - this one chapter in his characters’ lives. He owed it to them, at least, to finish one measly episode. 

John poured himself some water. It didn’t matter if they were happy, if they even smiled, as long as something was happening to them. He himself had stopped living a long time ago, but his heart beat on. But they were the ones that kept his heart beating. Without them, well, he may as well lay on his bed and wait for his stomach to sink into itself and worms to nest in his eyes. 

He shivered. The image of himself a still corpse had tripped through his mind’s eye a great too many times. 

John stole a glance into his studio, where the computer no longer glowed. Even though it was but three in the afternoon, perhaps it was a sign that he too should get some rest. The night before he hadn’t gotten much sleep — his bloody neighbors had crossed his small house on their midnight stroll and decided to stop outside his window. Perhaps he should put up a trespassing sign. 

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, yawned loudly, did all the things sleepy people did. He sipped some water. He took the mug back into the studio. 

He ran his fingers over the touchpad and woke up the computer. 

_As Felix crossed the ill-lit street, he thought for a moment he saw her shadow._

John stopped. It was Lindsey’s shadow, wasn’t it? The woman that abandoned him just that morning, that left no trace of her in his apartment before he had woken up, like she was a ghost?

Sometimes when John woke up, he liked to imagine that same horrific thing had happened to him. There was no trace of another person anywhere. Just his robe hanging on the door, his cold mug of tea from the night before, just his tooth brush on the bathroom counter. Hers was nowhere to be found. 

She was gone. 

_As the shadow stole into an alleyway, he couldn’t resist trailing it. The same ruffled cloak, the same softly-curved nose - even from meters way there was no mistake. She was trying so hard to hide, but he would bring her back. She must still love him._

Felix was a fool. 

John sipped some more water, keeping the mug on his lips as he erased those last words, _She must still love him._ He replaced them with, _He had no other choice._

Felix was prone to dramatizing things. He couldn’t leave what should be, be. 

As John put the mug of water down - he didn’t bother with glasses, who was he impressing? - there was a loud rapping noise from across the house. Something heavy was pounding against his front door. 

John froze to his seat. Goosebumps climbed all over his body, paralyzing his hands, his arms, his legs. Anxiety swept around him like a blanket. 

_Pound pound pound._

There hadn’t been a pounding on his door since he moved there. He purposely chose a small house in the countryside that was immensely inconvenient to get to because he never planned on leaving. And he never planned on visitors. 

And yet there it was, _pound pound pound._

_Pound._

“Hello!” It was a man’s voice. “John Watson, it’s the local police, please open the door.” 

The police? John breathed the biggest sigh of relief he could remember. So it wasn’t his mother or sister or any other unwanted visitor. Just the silly small-town police. He left his post at the studio chair and walked in seconds what usually took him ages, the very few times he walked this path at all: from there to the front door. 

Upon opening, a blast of cool air swept into the house. It was as if the outside world was greeting him hello after so long a parting. On his stoop stood two men: one in a long tan coat and the other in a much longer black cloak. The one in tan had decorated himself with a badge and a hat and a baton and radio. The one in black had but a scarf. 

“Dr. Watson, hello,” the decorated man said, nodding in earnest politeness. John seldom understood the rituals of the polite, but never wanting to cause a fuss where there need not be one, he too nodded. 

The man in black stayed still as a statue, his eyes boring into John’s. 

John cleared his throat. What an intense personage. Perhaps he could use this intensity as a trait for somebody in his stories. 

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man in tan continued on, “and this is Sherlock Holmes. We’re investigating a murder that happened recently in the area.”

John didn’t bat an eyelash, which he knew didn’t look very good considering people usually were at least miffed by murders, if not shocked or devastated or whatever other over-dramatic emotion others picked from their canisters of reactions when the occasion arose. “Ah.” 

John, a simple _Ah_ isn’t suitable, say something more substantial, he urged himself. “That’s bloody awful! Who was killed? Where did it happen? In the area, you say? Recently?” 

Repeating words back, very good, it shows that you were listening. A bit mechanical but it should do the trick. 

The man in black was still staring at him. This time, should they make eye contact, it seemed he was staring straight past his eyes and into his soul. 

John quickly looked away. The gaze had gone rapidly from intriguing to unsettling. 

“Would you mind answering a couple of questions?” asked the Detective Inspector. What a cumbersomely long title. 

“No, not at all, ask away.” John pointedly kept his line of sight free from the gaze of Mr. Holmes, although it proved very difficult considering his stoop was much too small and everybody was standing so bloody close to one another. 

“Wonderful. So last night, around nine o’ clock, did you hear anything suspicious?” 

John blinked. Had it been just nine o’ clock then when those neighbors wandered by? Although his home was on the very edge of the village, far from the main street, the taverns, the shops, most other humans, they somehow had found him. Had they been trying to wander to the most remote part of town possible?

It was hushed talking, all in whispers, and neither participant seemed very happy. But after listening for a couple of seconds the entire conversation seemed drunken and inane, and while he tried to tune the voices out John heard most of it regardless. Typically he enjoyed the sounds of the crickets outside. Maybe the breeze. Those were nice repetitive sounds. But not sloppy whispers between two men angry about a stupid poker match. John must have heard the same three sentences about a dozen times: 

_“What a fuckin’ stupid git, he loses every week, what’s different ‘bout this one?”_

_“I coulda fuckin’ sold my leg for that many pounds.”_

_“He definitely hid the cards in his jumper or somethin’, I’m tellin’ ya, he shouldn’ta won anythin’.”_

John looked at the Detective Inspector. However, if he revealed any of that, it would probably lead to much more extensive questioning, and he didn’t want these two men in his house. He would have to offer them drinks. They would have to sit on his couch. Mr. Holmes would stare at him until he had born a hole straight through his skull. 

“Not at all, I’m afraid,” John said. 

The Detective Inspector heaved a great sigh. He must have been one of many today to tell him this. “Maybe you know the man who was killed, his name —“ 

“You’re lying,” Mr. Holmes said suddenly, his rumbling of his deep baritone shaking John’s heart. Not in the good way, but in the very very bad way. It wasn’t not healthy to have your heart shaken. 

The Detective Inspector gave John a very hard look. Oh no. He would have to let them in. With this human lie detector present he would have to tell the truth. But who’s to say Mr. Holmes wasn’t wrong? Who was to say John was lying? How dare he accuse him of telling an untruth… even if he were correct? 

“I’m terribly sorry, Detective, but I really didn’t —“ 

“Lying.” 

John glared at him, but immediately regretted his decision. Looking at Mr. Holmes did nothing but make him break out in a cold sweat. Both because he was so intimidatingly confident and because he wouldn’t break his gaze for a goddamn second. 

John gulped. A habit of the culpable. 

“Would you mind if we came in?” asked the Detective Inspector. John wasn’t legally obligated to let them in. He could say no and close the door. It wasn’t as if they could find a warrant based simply off the hunch of a strange man in a black cloak. 

But his English sensibilities betrayed him, as they always did. 

“Of course,” he said, and opened the door wider. 

 


	2. Black, Two Sugars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all ! This is the second installment, please do let me know what you think!

The interview or questioning or whatever it was called was mercifully short. Mr. Holmes wouldn’t even look in his direction most of the time, assessing every bit of furniture he had in his living area. He picked up the stray bottles of ink on the mantle and sniffed it, he held dusty picture frames so close to his face his nose dared to brush them, he must have analyzed most of the fibres in his carpet, if not all of them. 

He was, by far, the strangest man John had ever encountered. He loved it. 

After he explained what had happened the night before, the questions John was asked were mild, if not a bit personal. 

“So what do you do for a living, Dr. Watson, now that you’ve retired?” Detective Inspector. 

“Something very sedentary and depressing.” Mr. Holmes. 

“How long have you been living here?” Detective Inspector.

“Far too long, he would say if he were honest.” Mr. Holmes. 

Most of it went like that. The conclusions of Mr. Holmes were astonishing. Just by peering at the dust motes floating in the air and the state of his kitchen sink he was able to assess his entire life. It was exhilarating, being under scrutiny so close. It made John feel like he was noticed again by people, that he too was interesting, not the lives he wrote about. It reminded him that he too lived a life, even if it were bleak. 

So when they were leaving and the tan and black were once again on his stoop, he said something to Mr. Holmes he hadn’t said to anybody since the fateful day he retired. 

“Please, come by any time, Mr. Holmes.” 

Mr. Holmes gave him a look of such incredulity that he felt compelled to explain himself. 

“You were amazing in there. Absolutely incredible. Everything you said was just… surreal.” 

At that, the Detective Inspector burst out laughing. Mr. Holmes continued to look back at John, eyes widened slightly in shock. “He doesn’t get that very often, do you, Sherlock?” he laughed. “I’d take advantage of the offer if I were you.”  The Detective Inspector tipped his hat and grinned. “Good afternoon to you, Dr. Watson. Be well.” 

John nodded. Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. “Good afternoon,” he said, nodding hesitantly before turning around and swiftly leaving his stoop. 

John closed the door. 

He sunk to his knees behind it. 

This is why he didn’t like visitors. It reminded him of how much he desperately missed people. 

 

— 

 

It was a thunderous day whence came the second rapping on the door. John had been laying awake in bed for hours, listening to the lighting crash with such abandon it sounded like the rain was having a tantrum. Whoever was rapping in this weather must have had information of the utmost importance to deliver. 

John clambered out of bed and to the front door. Ever since the day with the policemen, he had become much more comfortable walking in front of it again. 

Rain and wind and a couple of leaves blew straight into the house once the door opened. Standing in the middle of this mess, completely unfazed, was Mr. Holmes, wearing but his black cloak and a scarf that writhed wildly in wind. “Mr. Holmes!” John yelled above the roaring gusts. He shepherded the young man into his home, slamming the door behind them. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?” 

Mr. Holmes was a very tall man. He loomed over John, it seemed, now that they were standing so close without the difference of the front stoop to impede his height. “You suggested a visit,” he said coolly. “I like to know my neighbors. Is now a good time?” 

John glanced at his candy red clock. Seven in the evening. God, he really hadn’t much of a sense of what time it was anymore. Perhaps he should open the blinds again. “As good a time as any, I suppose,” he replied. “Um, sit down, if you like.” 

“I prefer to stand.” 

John blinked. All right. Funny bloke. “Okay. Would you like some tea?” 

“Black, two sugars,” he said distantly, walking into the kitchen. “That is a very bright clock.” 

John laughed nervously, sidling past Mr. Holmes toward the stove and tea kettle. “It was a gift.” 

“From whom?” 

“My sister.” John cleared his throat. “She’s partial toward garish furniture - you should see her flat in London, it’ll blind you - but I’m not one to turn down gifts.” He filled the kettle with water and flicked the stove on. “I think it gives the kitchen character, really. It attracts the eye.” 

“Hm. Are you from London?”  

John searched through his cabinets for the tea he reserved for guests. He didn’t dare assume anybody prefer the bland, cobwebby teabags he prepared for himself day in and day out. “Born and bred. Got my medical degree there.” 

Mr. Holmes seemed to trail him through the kitchen. John was almost remiss to turn around, close enough were they to share an awkwardly intimate moment. The tea was on a much higher shelf than he anticipated - he would either need a small stool to reach the tin or to climb onto the counter. The first one was impossible and the second one would look ridiculous. 

He direly wished Mr. Holmes would maintain a proper distance from his host. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “You spent some time in Afghanistan, did you, Dr. Watson?” 

John’s eyes flew open. That voice was from the sitting room. He spun around - Mr. Holmes had moved stealthily as a cat to the other end of the house Who was this man? “I did, yes,” John said, scurrying to his utility closet and fetching the stool. Why did he put the tea so high up there? Who was he trying to hide it from? Perhaps he put it out of sight so he wouldn’t get all huffed about not ever having any use for the guest tea. Since he had no guests. 

Except for this one. Wait. Afghanistan. He didn’t have any pictures of himself in the desert, did he? He took no pictures. “How did you know I’d visited Afghanistan?” he asked, feeling ridiculous as he retrieved the tea and stepped down from the stool. He preferred to call as little attention as possible to his height, especially in the presence of somebody who effortlessly loomed over him. 

Mr. Holmes wasn’t even facing him, but John hardly expected anything less at this point. Instead he was investigating the drawn shades. He had a handful of fabric pressed to his nose as he spoke. “You’re as brown as a nut, Doctor, but only below the wrists. You stand very straight even when you’re uneasy - especially when you’re uneasy, actually. The smallest of sounds has you at attention. You’re either paranoid or a former solder or…” he turned around, catching John’s eye, “both.” 

John swallowed. “I was indeed an army doctor. I don’t speak about it much.” Mr. Holmes kept his gaze, his face still smothered in his curtains. What a ridiculous person. “You’ve washed these blinds.” 

John fondled the tin of tea in his hands. It was cold and dusty. Thunder crashed around them as Mr. Holmes stood straight up, let the curtains fall back to their place, and then proceeded to sit down politely on John’s couch and fold his legs. “Excuse me for not having sat earlier, I just prefer to have my work done first.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue. _What work?_ But John didn’t ask it. “What’s so fascinating about the fact that I’ve washed my blinds?” John asked, although he could hear the beginnings of the tea kettle’s whistle. He stepped backward carefully into the kitchen. Mr. Holmes simply shook his head. “About you, then? Have you lived in Flyingdales long?” 

“Me? Oh no, I’m only up here temporarily. I should be back in London soon enough, once my brother has finished with his… _sensitive work_ , so he calls it.” 

John retreated into the kitchen and switched off the heat to the tea kettle. None of his mugs matched, so he gave Mr. Holmes a dark handsome one and relegated to himself his simple-but-trustworthy Christmas mug from which he always drank his water. “What’s your brother do that’s so sensitive, eh?” he called from the kitchen. 

“Oh, Mycroft just likes to _think_ he’s important. The only thing he ever affects is people.” 

John laughed as he walked back into the sitting room. Mr. Holmes had opened the blinds seeing out into the front yard. The greyish light of the night sky filtered into the room, illuminating his guest’s frame and the couch upon which he sat. Under the soft light, he did seem rather beautiful for a man, although that could simply be John not having been with a woman for much too long. He hadn’t touched anybody’s flesh but his own since Mary had left him. 

Like how Lindsey had left Felix. But Felix was bound to get her back. 

“People are overrated, I agree,” John said, handing Mr. Holmes his tea. “You’ve a real affinity for those curtains, huh? You smell them, you open them, you should take them home with you too, God knows they’ve done me more harm than good.” 

Mr. Holmes looked up at John behind his tea mug. It felt strange, being looked up to. Mr. Holmes’ long legs were crossed over but still somewhat awkwardly bunched between the couch and the coffee table. “Thank you for visiting, by the way,” John said, clearing his throat and sitting down, carefully balancing his own mug of tea. “I hadn’t actually thought you would take me up on the offer.” 

“I hadn’t thought so either,” Mr. Holmes replied, taking a sip. John crinkled his brow. Hadn’t expected that response. “But Lestrade offered I attempt amity with the only villager who hadn’t tried to throw a plate at my hand or curse my soul to hell.” 

John chuckled, almost choking on his tea. “Someone’s tried _cursing_ you to hell?” 

“Oh, loads of times. You should see the little dog-eared books they carry, just for when they encounter someone like me.” 

“That’s ridiculous!” 

“Not to most people.” 

“Isn’t it to you?” 

Mr. Holmes took a sip of tea and lapsed into a long pause, looking not at John nor at anything else, it seemed. “It is. But what is light-hearted to me is very grave to somebody else, and that which is grave strongly motivates, Dr. Watson. And I take those motivations very seriously.” 

John cocked his head. “Well, that’s not the least bit confusing.” 

Mr. Holmes rotated his attention back to his host. “For example, Lyle Hemsworth. Monday evening, found face-down in a creek, blunt trauma to the back of the head. Why was he killed, Dr. Watson?” 

John felt the goosebumps come over him again. “Was it those blokes from the poker game?” 

“Yes.” 

He cleared his throat and took another sip of tea. “I guess they wanted their money back, then?” 

“They wouldn’t have gotten it back.” 

“Vengeance for cheating, then?” 

“Do you care for poker enough to kill, Doctor?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Do you find the prospect ridiculous, even?” 

“Yes.” 

“But did your finding such a notion ridiculous keep Lyle Hemsworth alive?” 

John inhaled sharply. “No.” 

Mr. Holmes smiled. “Is what I said clear now?” 

John stared down at his feet. He hadn’t thought about the dead man since Mr. Holmes and the Detective Inspector had come by. They mentioned Lyle’s name briefly, how he was killed, where he was found even, but for some reason when Mr. Holmes described it in addition to pointing out the murder’s… futility, pointing out that the murder was just for murder, to gain nothing but satisfaction… 

He sipped his tea. “People are fascinating, aren’t they?” He turned to Mr. Holmes. “ _You_ fascinate me so much, Mr. Holmes.” 

His guest’s eyes widened a bit, as they had the other day, but they quickly returned to normal. “I would hardly say they were fascinating. More inconvenient.” 

“You would make a great character in a book.”

That made Mr. Holmes’s lips twitch into an almost-smile. “For a hermit, you like people very much.” 

John frowned. “I have my characters.” 

“No, it’s… fine, Doctor.” 

“I know it’s fine. I have no shame. I came here especially to be alone.” 

Mr. Holmes let out a stream of air, as if he were letting out a long-held secret. “Alone. As did I.” 

“I thought you came here to wait for your brother to finish his… sensitive work?” 

“And to escape the bustle of London. I’m bothered much less here. However, when work does come up, I would prefer to have a second pair of eyes, if you will. Somebody interested more than I in the inner workings of… people.” 

And then it clicked for John. “I can’t, Mr. Holmes. I’ve already gotten myself set up here. I’ve secluded myself away to write and nothing else.” 

“You can write all you like and never forget. All it’s doing is forcing you to wallow in your swamp of misery. Just take a quick inventory of how many times you’ve relived your wife leaving you only this week.” 

John’s mug shook in his hands. Thankfully he had drank enough of his tea for it not to spill. “How did you —“ 

“Her photo in the fireplace. It’s been there for ages but no flame has even licked its edges. Obviously you want to burn it. Obviously you can’t because you’re obsessed with writing about other people sharing your pain.”

It was a hard one to swallow, but John swallowed the lump in his throat. “It helps.” 

His companion shook his head. “It doesn’t.” He put his hand on his knee. John jumped a little. “There’s been another murder about twenty miles southwest of here. I’d like you to join me in the investigation tomorrow.” 

John felt his heartbeat. He hadn’t noticed it until now. It was much faster than usual. 

When he didn’t reply to the request, Mr. Holmes retracted his hand, put his tea on the table and fastened his black scarf. “Meet me at the train station at 8:30 tomorrow morning.” He stood up, looming above John once again. There he was, illuminated in the light again. 

You could cut your hand on those cheekbones. John had never even looked twice at a man, but Mr. Holmes had very long lashes and very soft-looking hair. One could almost call him pretty. 

And the opportunity he was offering, one could almost call him an angel. 

No no. John put his head down, looking away. _Don’t think like that, John_ , he told himself. _You called Mary the very same thing._

“Thank you for the tea, Doctor,” his guest said. John looked up. “And please, do call me Sherlock.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> I don't quite know if this sort of thing is done on here, but the line of this story isn't exactly predetermined, I've written some of the rest but not all of it, so if anybody has a small request of something to happen or be said in the upcoming chapters, I am more than happy to consider it. ^^


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